Let The Stars Burn
by ANE.Antioch
Summary: Lucid 9. Years after Inciting Incident, Yama finds himself partnered with the most unlikely of allies: Natuski Tanaka. Major spoilers for the game!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Fire.

It's a weird impression - irrational and unexpected. An intense compulsion to burn the building before me, to watch it disintegrate into blackened wood, scarred stone and shattered glass, and to _laugh_ as it happens.

It's not an ugly building by any means. Pristine arches of white marble bind together multi-story panes of crystal clear glass, the whole construct resting on stalwart pillars of European architecture. Honestly, "not ugly" is an unfair description. It's genuinely beautiful, for a building.

It's disgusting anyways. Maybe because it's not the building that I want to burn.

It's the people.

My tension must be palpable, because a warm, soft weight settles against my shoulder. I don't need to look to know that said weight is a petite brunette head. Her name is Natsuki Tanaka, and to say I don't trust her would be the understatement of my miserable existence. Odd, no? You'd think that several years of partnership would foster trust, or at least professional respect. Anything less would just make me an irrational cynic.

Admittedly, I partially am, but not because of how I treat Natsuki. People who don't know her see her as a cute girl, one on the cusp of blossoming into a beautiful woman.

I'm not fooled. She's one part cute, three parts mysterious, twenty parts troll, and thirty parts diehard sadist. Our relationship is born of one simple fact: she needs me, and I need her more. Like it or not, she's my bloodhound. And whether _she_ likes it or not, I'm her sword.

Life's just funny like that.

"Don't be so tense, dear," she says, voice rising in a gentle lilt. "A party, after all, is meant to be enjoyed."

I snort in disbelief. "If I wanted to enjoy a party, I certainly wouldn't have come with you."

She raises one delicate eyebrow in a gentle arc. "Such a harsh thing to say to a beautiful lady. What if you hurt my feelings? Women are delicate creatures, you know."

"You? Lady? I thought all trolls were male," I drawl. "Did my fantasy books lie to me?"

She chuckles softly. "You can't believe everything you read or hear, dear." The words are innocent, but there's a pointed reminder - _you're lost without me._ I grunt in response, and say nothing.

We approach the entrance: a grand set of double doors, surrounded by a team of ushers to check invitations and guide guests to their appropriate destinations. All of them are dressed formally - suits and ties, and I notice all of them tower above the arriving guests. Intimidation and an impression of grandeur, no doubt. Natsuki and I certainly fit in. She's dressed in a long, black evening gown, and I have a white suit. I don't do designer clothes, but even I can tell it's top quality. Natsuki had it tailored for me. She didn't tell me how she got my measurements, and I didn't ask.

I vaguely remember reading that couples are supposed to match each other. White for white, black for black. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but it doesn't really matter either way. There's a certain beautiful irony in the contradictory nature of our outfits.

One of the ushers holds up a gloved hand as we approach. The motion is refined and standoffish, not at all welcoming, and the message is clear. Only the "high class" are wanted here.

"Invitation, madam?" he asks stuffily. Natsuki pulls two cream colored pieces of paper out of her purse. They're smooth and creaseless, and I idly wonder how she manages to keep them pristine among all the other tools she's carrying.

"Natsuki Tanaka," she says with a sweet smile. Just seeing it sickens me. "You know who I am. This gentleman is my accompaniment for the night."

The man pales visibly, even in the dim moonlight. "W- we're honored by your presence, madam. If you would follow me, I shall show you to your table."

He leads us through velvet halls of antique wood into a open ballroom. The ceiling glistens with the heavy weight of crystal chandeliers and bright golden light. Almost everything is gold or white - the walls, the tables, the floor - although wooden table legs and heirloom furniture peek dark chocolate brown through the blinding barrage of brightness. With a bow, the usher departs, leaving us alone, surrounded by opulence.

"Marvelous people skills, dear." My voice drips acidic sarcasm. "I'm glad to see your talent for bullying has remained potent as ever."

She presses against me seductively, slim hand against my chest in a gentle caress. If it were any other girl, I might care, but not Natsuki. "Why thank you, dear. What a sweet thing for you to say."

I push her away before striding over to one of the tables. The pure whiteness of it nauseates me, and for a moment I juxtapose a vision of scarlet liquid staining the innocent fabric. I pull out one of the chairs with a mocking bow, and Natsuki takes a seat with an equally insincere smile. I sit next to her, and neither of us say anything more.

The other guests trickle in slowly. There's a roughly equal mix of men and women - it would be shameful to come alone, after all. They're comprised of a wide variety of shapes, sizes and colors, but all of them share the same flaunted wealth and airs of perceived superiority. I have no doubt that all of them have taken advantage of the innocent. This is Isamu, and you don't get rich if you're weighed down by such petty things as _ethics._ It doesn't take long for the room to fill with a stinking, festering mass of humanity. If you can even call it that.

I want to kill them all. Want it so, so badly. Want to tear them apart bit by bit, marvel in their despair as their life drains from them drop by drop, and to cackle as they know the justice for which Ru- for which innocents whom they have exploited have cried out. But I can't, not yet.

Ah well. As they say, good things come to those who wait.

As people enter the room and the food arrives, Natsuki gets to work. She's "playing the room:" moving from social interaction to social interaction, leveraging whoever and whatever she can, teasing, flirting, manipulating, and generally being a leech in the form of a butterfly, only instead of blood, she drinks people. Thing is, everyone else is doing the same.

It's a game, of sorts. Natsuki's a grandmaster. Me? I'm just the muscle. Sit there, look intimidating. I'm a pretty good deal, though, because I'm attractive too. She gets all the guys, I get all the girls. The masculine strength to compliment her feminine wiles. She won't need me now, though, so I ignore the chatter around me in favor of focusing on the food. She'll get my attention when she wants it. Right now, a feast calls to me.

And what a feast. All kinds of meat, seafood, bread, vegetables, everything you can imagine, in every style you can imagine. Someone tries to talk to me. I ignore him. Or her. Or it. Whatever, he, she, it's not food. I'm half way through a fillet of some kind of sea bass when Natsuki rises from the table like a silken black cloud, chatting with all the refined air of a reincarnated aristocrat. She makes no motion towards me, so I keep eating.

Gotta say, I would consider oppressing a couple people or more if I could eat like this all the time. Maybe these people have it right.

 _Yama! That's not funny!_ A scolding, innocently girlish voice cries in my head. I ignore it, but a few shards of shameful regret remain.

If only she could see me now. Honestly, I'm glad she can't.

I'm a third of the way through a medium rare steak when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I look up. A clearing has appeared in the center of the room like a yawning maw, surrounded by tables serving for white, round teeth. Men and women fill the gap, strutting statues of pompous pride, and out of my line of sight an orchestra begins the tell tale one-two-three of a waltz. Natsuki's in the thick of it, so the message didn't come from her, which means I don't care. Interrupting a meal of this caliber ought to be a crime.

I barely take another bite before the accursed device vibrates again, this time in the repeating buzz that signaled an incoming call. With a growl, I snatch the offending electronic nuisance from my pocket, if only to shout abuse at whoever has interrupted my heavenly meal.

When I see the caller ID, my irritation evaporates immediately.

Airi Hiraga.

Airi? I haven't seen her in… I'm not even sure. Over a year, at least. Not since our stint in Northern Russia. That little mess had been the whole package deal: espionage, industrial sabotage, extortion, blackmail, a one of a kind buy-four-get-ten-free sort of operation. It'd been my first experience with assassination.

It wouldn't be the last.

I leap to my feet and hustle from the room, not bothering to apologize to the people I jostle on my way out. I make my way into the bowels of the building. Left, right, right, left, right, down the hallways, my path burning itself into my mind with the ease of long practice. My intention was to call Airi back later, but the incessant vibrations tell me that she really, really wants to talk to me now. Wonder why.

When I'm sufficiently convinced I'm alone, I answer.

"Hello?"

"You took so long," a soft, girlish undertone of death informs me. The words are delivered seemingly without emotion, but I'm familiar enough with Airi to detect the traces of complaint beneath them.

"Eating," I say. "What do you want?"

"I need a favor," her voice comes back soft. Soft is her specialty, like the unseen embrace of a lethal venom. I chuckle.

"It's been what, over a year since we've last talked, and not even a word of greeting for your poor, lonely friend? I've missed you, you know." Sarcasm fit for a king. Or at least a high-ranking government official.

"Oh." A long pause. "Hello." Another pause. "Is that better?"

Yep. That's Airi alright.

"Ah, forget it," I sigh. "Just tell me what you need."

"I'm rescuing a friend. I need your help."

Interesting. Airi wouldn't ask for _my_ help unless she was expecting a fight. I'm a pretty one-dimensional guy like that. "Quiet or loud?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Lethal or nonlethal?"

"Either."

"When?"

"Now."

Well, thanks for the advance notice, Airi. Good to see your penchant for _spontaneity_ hasn't changed in the slightest. Do these people ever change? Ever?

I can't do it, anyways. Natsuki will kill me if I just ditch her.

"Nope. Not possible. I'm busy." I move to hang up, but her next words stay my hand.

"It's Shigure. She's going to die."

My grip tightens around the phone like an iron vice. I haven't seen Shigure in what may as well have been a lifetime. It's none of my business. She's drawn to trouble like a rat to strong cheese, and it's no longer my job to bail her out.

Even so, I can't deny that there's a part of me that wants to help. I still owe her _that_ much, at least. She- she's helped me out. A lot.

Ah, screw it. Natsuki will live. Shigure, from the sounds of it, may not.

"Where?" I finally say.

"District 6," Airi says in the same monotone, but I can sense the underlying gratitude. "The old warehouses."

"Alright, fine, I'll help," I sigh exaggeratedly. "But only because you're cute."

"Does cute matter?" she says, and I can practically see the inquisitive tilt of her head.

"I suppose there may be other reasons as well."

"So cute doesn't matter." There's an air of content finality to her words.

"On the contrary, my dear: nothing else matters," and with that, I hang up. I don't need to tell her how or when I'll meet her or what I'll bring. She knows anyways.

When you work together enough, you just know. Even if it's been a while.

I retrace my steps, and even with the multitude of twists and turns I took, my memory guides me back with the same confidence that glowing neon signs would. The entrance appears before me, grim glass doors staring at me with glowering condemnation, but I stride through them uncaringly, making a beeline for the black limousine that had been Natsuki and my transport.

I knock on the gleaming obsidian-black door. The window rolls down, revealing the dignified countenance of the hired driver.

"Yes?"

"I need my bag," I tell him in clipped tones. "Back seat."

"Very well." The lock disengages with a click, and I pull out an inconspicuous duffel bag. Natsuki might demand I prance around in overpriced suits like some money-flaunting penguin, but that doesn't mean I'm going to come unprepared. The suit's the wrong color anyways, and if I can't even be a penguin then why bother?

I duck into a nearby alley, and after a minute I'm dressed in my preferred field clothes: black turtleneck, thin scarf over my lower face, fatigues, and a beanie. Normally, I'd wear shades, but at this time of night, doing so would basically blind me. The clothes are borderline over-dramatic, but it'd only taken one nasty clean up operation to hammer home the importance of discretion. Better to pull a b-grade vigilante cosplay than be recognized.

 _Ready or not, here I come._

I pull a few other items from the bag, most notably a rope and my gun. Rope is phenomenally useful, and as for the gun - well, the whole point of my little jaunt is to shoot some dudes. I know a lot of professionals get attached to their weapons: custom modifications, names, and one guy I knew even came up with a personality and backstory. Talked to it like a girlfriend. Not really my thing, though. I've gone through six weapons by now anyways, and that's just the handguns.

I don't even know the model of my current one, which is kind of embarrassing. Natsuki bought it. I just shoot it. She picks good stuff, no matter her multitude of other flaws, and frankly, I just don't care enough. Even if it's sloppy.

Brushing with death stopped being meaningful a long time ago.

Sufficiently prepared, I fade into the night, leaving the garish lights of cancerous upper society behind me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The air of District 6 is an oppressive smog of fear, depravity, poverty, death, and all the other beautiful things in life. It's like a giant weight of negativity that forces you downwards, makes every step an effort, the perfect atmosphere for the surrounding dilapidated apartments and cratered streets.

It's positively _lovely._

In the distance, lit by the flickering glow of dying neon lights lies the tattered shreds of an old propaganda poster. The mayor looks straight at me, one eye torn out by the passage of time, a confident, inviting smile pasted on the remains of his face.

" _Isamu needs you!"_ it reads. I give it a solemn salute before breaking out in a fit of hysterical laughter. Isamu needs me alright. Needs me like a kitchen needs garbage disposal, burning away the trash and the filth so we're not all standing in our own rot.

A vibration in my pocket reminds me of more pressing concerns, so I drag out my phone, sides still heaving with the effort of suppressing my mirth. When I see the ID, my good humor evaporates. It's not Airi. Time to pay a reckoning.

"Greetings, my lady," I drawl flippantly.

"My dear, wherever have you gone?" Natsuki purrs in return. "Surely you cannot have tired of my company so quickly."

"I find myself quite inspired by our dear mayor's propaganda. Perhaps he has need of another hound."

"Not all jokes are humorous, darling. Watch your tongue." Natsuki says, genuine, heated anger creeping into her words. It takes me aback. Natsuki is the very picture of control and manipulation, and for her to slip like this?

It might be a trick. Somehow, though, I get the feeling it's not.

"My apologies." I decide to go the serious route, lest I incite more wrath. Normally, I'd jump at the chance to finally one-up her, but there's too much relying on her tonight. I know my strengths. I can't replace her. "I got an urgent call from an old friend. She needs a favor immediately."

A pause. "Airi Hiraga, I presume?"

"How did you guess?" She's clairvoyant, I swear.

"Please," Natsuki scoffs, "as if you have other friends."

An unfortunate truth.

"The only favor she would bother calling _you_ for would be-" I can practically see the slow, condescending grin. "You wouldn't happen to be in District 6, would you?

Clairvoyant. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

"You're in luck, dear. Your excellent nose occasionally compensates for your tragic deficiency of mental faculties."

"Yama no understand. Yama want smash."

"Charming. Give the little detective my regards, would you? I do so enjoy her company."

How did- you know what? Whatever. She probably sold her soul or something.

"Oh, and Yama?" Her usage of my name sends a chill down my spine. She _never_ uses it. Always 'dear' or whatever else catches her fancy.

I get it, I disobeyed her. But why is she so inordinately upset?

Her voice is an icy, velvet caress. "Remember that a rabid dog earns nothing but a swift death."

I hang up without bothering to answer.

A soft thump to my right alerts me to the presence of a new visitor. I pull and level my gun in one swift motion, simultaneously flicking the safety off. Two quizzical blue eyes stare back at me. I relax.

"You should know better than to drop on me like that. Especially right before an op."

"You came quickly," Airi says, a note of pleasure in her voice.

"But of course. You know me; the very picture of punctual."

"Not in Korea."

I wince. "I thought we agreed not to talk about Korea."

"You asked not to. I didn't agree," she says matter-of-factly.

"I'll be sure to bring a contract next time."

She blinks slowly. "No next time, please. Once was enough."

Is- is _Airi Hiraga_ snarking? Is she exhibiting a _sense of humor_? Impossible. Next thing I know, Natsuki's going to be singing passionate love ballads.

Ugh. That's a terrible mental picture. Never again.

"Right. Well, guess I'll just have to make it up to you right now. Where are we headed?"

She points to a run down warehouse directly in front of us. The roof has partially collapsed, leaving gaping holes that the slanted sheets of rusted metal can't manage to bridge. The windows are nothing but jagged spikes of broken glass, and a warped wooden pole leans drunkenly against a buckling wall of faded yellow.

"Right there?" I ask. She nods confirmation.

Well. That's convenient.

"Shigure's in there?" I clarify. Working with Airi can be such a pain. I mean, seriously, can you not string more than five words together? Oh, _without_ being a health freak, thank you very much. I don't need vegetable lectures.

"Yes."

"Alright then. What's the situation? Why do you even need me, anyways?"

"She got captured."

"By?"

She tilts her head unhelpfully. "Enemies."

Of all the- Well, at least now I know I'm fighting people, instead of rescuing her from a burning building or some nonsense. Pretty much figured that out on my own though. Airi knows that people are my specialty.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious."

"I'm not a captain," Airi corrects.

"It's an exp- you know what, never mind. You wouldn't happen to have a plan, would you?"

Blink. Blink again.

"Of course not," I sigh. "You have your usual equipment, I presume?"

She pats the bulging guitar case on her back. It's kind of adorable, like a small girl strolling around town with her beloved instrument. Only no girl in her right mind should be _anywhere_ close to District 6, especially at this time, and I know what's in that guitar case. It ain't no instrument.

"Good," I continue. "Usual tactics then. You don't want these guys alive or anything, do you?"

"No."

Perfect. I should try to keep one or two alive. I've got some questions that need answering, and heaven knows Airi won't be helping me in that regard.

But, well, no promises. It's so hard to stop when you're having _fun_ , after all.

Airi silently swings onto a nearby balcony before disappearing into the obsidian skyline, and I take her movement as a sign our mission has commenced. I give her a few seconds to get in position before strolling lackadaisically into the warehouse, whistling a jaunty tune through the thin cloth of my scarf.

The interior reeks of rancid oil and rotting fish. Dim oil lamps, of all things, cast an orange glow across the filthy floor, revealing tall shipping crates strewn haphazardly like a jungle of sheet metal. Near the center of the room, a feeble fire lies in a hastily constructed clearing where several of the crates were roughly shoved aside. A hunched figure is bound to a structural pillar, surrounded by a group of musclebound men. Shigure, I assume. It's too hard to see in this lighting.

I can barely even see the thugs around her, but what I _can_ see nearly forces a chuckle of mirth out of me. They're a textbook example of generic goon; ragged clothes, bulging arms, bandanas, tattoos, the whole works. It's so perfectly comprehensive.

This won't even qualify as a warm up.

My whistling reaches their ears, and twelve scarred faces swivel to face me like a pack of rabid dogs, twisted in condescending hate. I raise a hand in a noncommittal wave. They brandish a motley collection of weapons in response; I spot knives, a cutlass, a couple handguns, even one poor fool with a fire extinguisher. How sad. How very humorous.

"Greetings, gents. How do you fare this fine evening?"

One of them spits on the ground. "Who the hell are you?"

"Didn't your mommy teach you spitting is rude?" I admonish him. "Especially with a lady right there."

"I said who the hell are you!" he snarls. The leader, I assume. Figures it'd be the ugliest one.

"Me? Just a dog, come to play fetch."

"Yeah? Well scram, or I'll gut you like one."

"Like one what? Be specific, good sir."

He opens his mouth to hurl abuse-

Then his head explodes in a fountain of blood, bone, and cerebral matter. I notice a remarkable lack of the last.

Fifty caliber sniper round. Perfectly aimed, as expected. Airi doesn't miss.

The bitter iron tang of blood reaches my nostrils, and I breath deeply, heedless of the rank stench of fish and oil. It's tantalizing, invigorating- life now turned death, staining the ground, walls, and the men behind him a riveting scarlet. One of the unfortunate souls screams as the bullet continues, undeterred by the resistance of the first man's skull, turning his shoulder into a bloody mess of pulpy meat. He collapses under the agony. Beauty. Vengeance. Justice.

Perfection.

 _And so I wake._

The remaining eight men stare in stupefied shock at the headless corpse that was once their leader, before scrambling for the cover of the nearest shipping crates. Watching them is pure comedy; they flail like flies caught in cold molasses, limp puppets caught in slow motion. I lazily bring my gun up, its solid heft comforting in my hands.

Another deep breath.

 _Oh Mr. Ryouta,_ I whisper the name fondly. _Dear, dear Mr. Ryouta. Do you see what you've done to me?_

 _I am the end._

Then I fire.

Two rounds in the chest and one in the head sends one of the goons tumbling across the ground, leaving long crimson streaks in his wake. Another desperately dives for the safety of a stack of crates. His movement is wasted. I barely spare him a glance before planting a bullet straight between his eyes.

One less piece of trash to fester.

I hear a faint, echoing crack, and another man perishes in a vibrant explosion of organic matter. Hardly impressive. I've seen Airi kill from four times the distance.

The rest of the vermin cower in their holes out of my line of sight. I stride forward slowly, each step a reverberating crunch, the toll of approaching judgment. Two of them charge toward me with desperate screams, jagged knives brandished with shaking hands. It's close range. I didn't see them in time. They probably thought I couldn't shoot both of them before they got me.

If I only had one weapon, they might be right. But I never bring _one_ weapon.

I reach into the loose folds of my clothing, and like a vengeful apparition another gun appears in my previously empty hand. Any expert will tell you that dual wielding guns is utterly impractical. You can't aim. You can't reload. Madness. Foolishness. And yet in another era, ancient pirates developed a very clever workaround to one of these problems.

Carry multiple guns.

As for accuracy? Airi's not the only crack shot. We're twins in that way: an impossible anomaly in an impossible time.

A deep breath. The safety clicks off. Two goons in a crawling dash. Frame by frame, I watch horror and despair possess them as they realize their lives are over.

It's tantalizing.

Twin jerks of recoil in my hands.

Three left.

One of them pops up from his cover, ancient handgun aimed directly at me. I watch calmly as his face breaks into a toothy, triumphant grin, utterly confident in his victory. His finger tightens around the trigger that will end my life.

I blow him apart in a hail of bullets.

The final two lose their nerve completely and flee, stumbling over themselves in their haste. Their clumsiness is endearing, but I do nothing to stop them. Airi's been _such_ a good girl. Let her have a turn.

One. Two. The cracks are louder, closer, distinct now. The corpses hurtle through the air like ragdolls before coming to rest, broken heaps of flesh on the filthy ground.

The fun's coming to an end, but a final course remains. I pick my way through the blood to where the man wounded by Airi's first shot desperately fights to crawl to safety. A solid kick to the ribs bowls him over with a scream of agony.

"Now, now. Why so hurried?"

"You're sick," he spits with the bravado only a dying man can muster.

"Ah. Well, I've been called worse." I drag him upright, uncaring of his pained gasps as I jostle his shoulder in the process. "Now, my dear friend, I have a few questions for you. What business do you have with the little detective? Who greased your palms? Goodness knows your ilk would never do anything for _free._ "

"Ask all you want, bastard," he growls viciously. "I'll never talk."

Ah. How very _typical._ Too bad I have no interest in negotiating.

I shrug. "Suit yourself." Three bullets find their mark at point blank range, dragging his head through a violent jerk in their quest to exit his skull. Silence falls, broken only by the mournful clicks of my weapons returning to their hidden holsters as their brief freedom comes to an end.

A vaguely human shaped mass of rope stirs a few meters away, reminding me of the purpose of this whole affair. A quick glance reveals that the knots are both dense and tight; untying them by hand will be almost impossible. I don't bother trying until Airi darts next to me on silent feet, comically oversized sniper rifle cradled in her arms. Wordlessly, she passes me a silver knife, and I get to work with a vengeance. The thick cords provide only a feeble resistance to the assault of her excellent blade, and it's not long before the two baleful eyes of my favorite detective are glaring at me.

At first glance, Shigure hasn't changed at all. Even after ten years, she's still the same miniature ball of irrepressible confidence that she's always been. Her clothing preferences have remained consistent; baggy t-shirts and comfortable jeans, although her signature hat is conspicuously absent, probably lost in whatever struggle resulted in her capture. There's a haggardness around her eyes, however, that tells the stories of sleepless nights and hopeless pursuits and the sight of far too many things she could do without.

No, this isn't the same Shigure I once knew- far from it. Just like I'm not the same Yama _she_ once knew.

"Shigure," I say in mocking surprise. "It's been _so_ long. How are you doing?"

Something in my voice must have caught her off guard, because her irritation gives way to a calculative glance. "Ishimoto. What - what _happened_ to you?"

"Me? Whatever could you mean? Can you not see all _this_?" I gesture grandly across the room. She follows my motion, grimacing in disgust as her gaze lands on the full fruits of my labor. "Isn't it beautiful? I've never been better."

"That's what worries me."

I lean closer, until our faces are only a foot away from the other's, mocking leer against cold disapproval. "You're hardly in a position to judge, dear Shigure. Not doing so well yourself, are you? What happened to the expansive vocabulary? Don't tell me it's decayed from underuse? Couldn't find another… minion?"

"Spare me, Ishimoto," she snaps. "While I am grateful for your assistance in my rescue, do not presume it gives you leave to interpret my activities."

I bow sardonically and back away. "As you wish."

The silence doesn't last long before she speaks again. "Doesn't it bother you? That you've become so much like the man you once despised?"

A mirthful cackle tears itself from my throat, a reverberating echo in the confines of the warehouse. "Who? Ryouta? That blathering moron? Oh, my dear, how could you possibly be so _wrong_? You really _are_ losing your touch!"

She responds with a grim chuckle of her own. "I hardly know any other who would call such rampant violence _beautiful._ "

"Violence? No, no, not violence. You think I love _bloodshed_? You've misjudged me, Shigure. I'm hurt."

Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second. She's figured me out, then. Smart girl. "I almost pity you, Ishimoto."

Airi re-appears beside us before I can respond, Shigure's signature hat clutched in her hands. Scary. I didn't even notice her leave. The detective accepts the gift with a genuine, grateful smile. Shigure? Smile? It looks wrong - like wings on a fish or leaves on a bird.

Changed indeed.

The red-haired girl turns toward me. I'm not sure what I expect - thanks, maybe?

"Sirens."

Ok, not that. Well, it's Airi.

Now that she's mentioned it, though, I can hear them too - a distant wail that signifies the approach of Isamu's police force. It's an admirably rapid reaction. We haven't been here more than a few minutes.

"We should split," Shigure commands tersely. "I don't want to explain all… this."

"Very well, then. A pity. I'm still curious about why you were in this mess in the first place. _Do_ catch up with me sometime, would you?"

She snorts derisively. "Don't count on it."

I can't take more than a few steps before the whole warehouse is flooded with blinding light, leaving me no recourse but to shield my eyes against the sudden glare.

"This is the police!" an amplified voice blares. "You're completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up!"

What…? Impossible. The sirens were too far, there was no way they could be here so quickly -

Unless it was a trick. I've heard rumors, recently, that Isamu's police had dramatically altered their procedures, that new leadership had resulted in a far more mobile, effective force, especially in dangerous districts like district 6.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before I was on the receiving end. What a nasty little mess this has turned out to be.

When a dark figure steps through the light, gun leveled at me, I raise my hands in surrender. As my eyes adjust to the light and my vision of the figure clarifies, however, my lips peel back in a feral grin. It's a woman - and a stunning one, at that, even dressed in the snappy black of a police officer. That's not what catches my attention. No, instead, it's the long, purple hair that streams behind her, the lone beacon of unprofessionality in an otherwise perfectly disciplined package. Purple hair I haven't seen in a decade.

In a single instance, the improvement in Isamu's law enforcement is entirely explained.

"Well, well, Lizzie," I drawl. "You're really moving up in the world."

Her face goes white, leaving only ghostly wisps of her previous iron control.

"Yama?"


	3. Interlude 1: Elizabeth

**Interlude 1**

"You look tired."

I look up blearily from the precarious tower of documents on my desk. Kazu leans roguishly on one of the posts of my doorframe, filling the narrow space with his scarecrow-like figure.

"How could you tell?" I mumble, the words thick in my mouth.

"You were rubbing your temples. You only do that when you're tired."

Really? I was? I honestly can't remember.

"I've been here-" I glance at the clock. Blimey, 1 AM? "Seventeen bloody hours."

"Quite the long day. I sent everyone else home already." He takes a seat opposite me, offering a steaming mug of coffee that I hadn't noticed before. "Here. Figured you might like a boost."

I take it gratefully, too drained to complain that it's coffee instead of tea. Most of the force prefers the foul brew. Savages, the lot of them. "You're free to go too, if you like. I think I'm going to spend the night."

He takes a moment to consider the proposition before shaking his head. "I'll stay with you. Gets pretty creepy being alone here this late."

"I think I can handle it," I inform him drily. "But thank you. Your company would be nice."

It's moments like these that remind me how truly valuable Kazu is as a second in command. It's not too hard to find someone willing to follow orders, but he also brings an invaluable sensitivity to people and admirable initiative, among other things. The past few weeks since my promotion would have been unbearable without him.

I manage to work my way through a couple more documents before I toss my pen across my desk in a burst of exhausted frustration. "The next time the mayor wants to start a bloody revolution, he can bloody well handle the reconstruction paperwork himself."

Instead of chastising me for my outburst, Kazu chuckles sympathetically. "Let's be fair. You brought it upon yourself with all the changes you wanted."

"I didn't exactly do it for _fun._ The revolution didn't leave us with much choice."

"And you brought us through it. Now you get to enjoy the reward for your heroism.

"I think I hate you," I grumble. "If I had known that _this_ is what I would be doing I would have told the mayor to shove it."

He grins. "Look on the bright side. It could be worse. You could be in charge of district six."

"At least I'd have _people_ trying to kill me instead of bloody _paperwork_ doing it."

That draws a bark of laughter from him. "Take a break, Liz. Get some sleep, or at least stretch a little. You're going to drive yourself insane."

Sleep sounds nice. I don't think I've gotten more than four hours a night for the past week. There's too much to do, though, and I'm the only one with the necessary authority to get it done. Bloody bureaucracy. I pick my pen with a forlorn sigh. "In a bit. I can't stop until I-"

A sharp rattle snaps my attention upwards, hand automatically darting for the gun under my desk. It's an ingrained reaction - too many close calls during the revolution left all of us a bit twitchy. I relax when I see that it's just one of the young cadets struggling to free herself from my window blinds. As soon as she can, she dashes jerkily into my office, greeting me with a hasty bow.

Petite and doe eyed, with a youthful face and shoulder length black hair, Hana Hasegawa is perhaps the last person you would expect to be a police cadet. Still, she's sharp, disciplined, and enthusiastic, and in these times that's enough to get you in. It's unusual for her to be so rushed. Something must have really shaken her.

Wait. That's odd. Didn't Kazu say he sent everyone home? Maybe she volunteered to stay?

"One of the cameras caught something in District Six, ma'am," she blurts, the words tumbling over each other. "I think we need to alert the station there immediately."

"What is it?" I ask curiously.

She pulls her phone out and hands it to me with a deft flip. "Take a look."

It's a still shot from a security camera, grainy and distant, but what I see sends a thrill of excitement that purges all traces of weariness. A dark figure, face half obscured by his trademark scarf, saluting the camera with a mocking hand.

Uncaring cockiness. A string of untraceable crimes and unprovable rumors. A criminal legend.

This is the man known as _Liberator_. My ever elusive prey for years. And he's _taunting_ me.

"The bloody nerve of him," I hiss. A quick glance at the time stamp marks it as only a few minutes old.

"Kazu," I bark. He's already on his feet. Good man. "Tell the District Six station to ready reinforcements. We found Liberator.I'm going after him."

"Already on it." He bustles out of the room in a flurry of movement, one hand working his phone furiously, the other absently fiddling with the gun at his side.

"Hanezawa. Get your equipment. We're leaving ASAP."

She stares at me in wide-eyed shock. "But District Six isn't our jurisdiction."

"It's Liberator. He's _always_ my jurisdiction."

"I really don't think this is appropriate-"

"I gave you an order, _cadet_ ," I growl, putting extra emphasis on the title. "Now move it!"

Her reluctance is obvious, but she moves to obey. I scramble to collect everything I need, heart racing with anticipation.

"Come on Liz," Kazu falls into step beside me with a wry grin. "Be nice. You're confusing the poor girl."

"What do you mean?"

"She's too used to you being Miss By-The-Book. I don't think she can handle all the rules you're ignoring."

"Then she would have had a panic attack working with me during the revolution."

He sighed with good natured exasperation. "We're going to be breaking more protocol, aren't we."

I respond with a feral grin. "We need to catch him off guard. Take a civilian car. Look for any signs of violence. Knowing Liberator, it's going to be dramatic."

"Of course we're breaking more protocol," Kazu mourns. "Let's take mine. Yours is too… conspicuous."

There's a brief silence as we finish our preparations. I break it.

"Kazu." My voice is alien to myself, cold steel on an overcast day. "I'm bringing him in this time."

He nods seriously. "I know."

"The - the Tokyo peace talks." My throat tightens, but I push on. "He's got to pay. I won't- I can't-"

"I know, Liz," Kazu interrupts. "We'll get him."

Yes. Yes we will.

Ready yourself, Liberator. We're coming.


End file.
